


Westering

by philomel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-05
Updated: 2011-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:25:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philomel/pseuds/philomel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Going nowhere, or just going.</p><p><span class="small">Spoilers up to 2.01 “In My Time Of Dying.”</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Westering

He knew he should not have asked it. Even in the confines of his own head, _especially_ holed up in that space where it could only ricochet and repeat, he knew better. But the thought came, and no amount of distraction could unthink it.

Where was this going?

He saw an endless succession of hunt after hunt, each cunning ghost no substitute for the elusive demon that had upended their lives, thrust them into a world where they ran parallel to everyone else but never quite connected. Jess was the closest he had ever gotten to living a real life. And he didn't want to think about that either.

Sam wondered if Dean thought the same thing. He'd been at it longer — surely he was tired by now. Instead, he seemed to feed off each new chase, sparking at the challenge as though he sucked up the energy he snuffed out. So much death; to still be alive seemed like cheating.

____________________________

But Dean did wonder where this would end. Trouble is, he couldn't afford to think about it, when doing so could be deadly. Like that time in Pennsylvania when those three pale kids circled around him, tugging at his shirt and easing rocks into his pockets. Their own mother had drowned them, like some sort of sacrifice. She’d drowned herself too, and that kind of sacrifice Dean understood. He could still feel the chill of Dad’s whisper at his ear. And he’d rather not. Rather just let go.

Following them down the riverbank was too easy. So simple, to hold on to their cold hands and give in to the water that already filled their eyes.

“You want to,” said one of them. He almost did.

“You _need_ to,” said another — the boy, whose brown eyes swam in milky moonlight.

He was about to say yes.

The shots of rock salt never hit him, but he fell down into the mud, as if the children had been holding him up all along. Pebbles dug into his palms, leaving indentations like fingernails. He felt the impressions of them for weeks, long after they'd faded away: a lingering soreness he tested each time he gripped the wheel.

Sam had saved him, and it was completely wrong.

No, Dean had escaped his own death too many times to trust his ability to escape it again. Even his impeccable luck had to run out at some point. And he'd be damned if he'd give that crusty old reaper another chance, just yet. Still. It had to end somewhere. Only, when he imagined what the end looked like, he saw nothing but blackness. Blacker than the sky without stars, deeper than the pupils of dead souls. All-encompassing. And... somehow, as comforting as the blanket on his parents' bed, when he'd sneak in there in the middle of the night, warm and smothered and safe. In the days before Sam came.

Somewhere along Interstate 80, digging his heel into the gravel and dry weeds of the shoulder, Dean stared into the black surface of the Impala and saw himself and Sam reflected back. Stretched and watery in the glare of sunlight.

"53 more miles, exit 49," Sam said, folding the map. And that's where they went.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: halfdutch.


End file.
